


Budapest ( I'd Leave it all )

by Always_Inconvenient



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Minor Original Character(s), Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Red Room, Snarky Clint, What Happened in Budapest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Always_Inconvenient/pseuds/Always_Inconvenient
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens in Budapest doesn't always stay there, or at least, that's the issue Agent Phil Coulson is faced with when Agent Clint Barton manages to bring a stray Russian Agent home with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Budapest ( I'd Leave it all )

**Author's Note:**

> Me & a friend wrote this, and this, this our little mutant hybrid child which I think it's safe to say we're pretty proud of. We had way too much thinking of what could have actually happened in Budapest, and we're not exactly sure how long this is going to be, but, hey! We're having fun.

Being a Politician had always been a dirty business. All of the underhanded things one had to do simply to accomplish every agenda except the one he publicly owned up to, they didn't exactly paint a pretty image of himself. More often than not, those who entered this profession as bright-eyed hopeful little things either changed from the pressure of those around them or were crushed under the realisation their world was a lot darker than they'd assumed, crushed and swept under the rug. Henrik had been a part of this world for long enough to know who's wheels to grease and who's pockets to line to get done what he wanted to take care of.

It was no easy feat to go unnoticed in a world that trusted no one. Everyone was bound to slip up eventually. But he had taken precautions. Precautions to stop his name from being linked to the shady deals and sneaky manoeuvres he had set into motion. Why should he fight fairly when his opposition played the game almost as well as he did? Though he supposed, they didn't have quite the same connections as he'd managed to rake together in his time spent in the office.

Rolling his shoulders, Henrik typed in one of his password for the message board that he and his accomplices had been using to communicate for the last several months. It wouldn't do if someone were to accidentally stumble upon him meeting with them face to face. And with election time fast approaching, the media was often following him just on the off chance that they could catch him doing something unsavoury. Amateurs slipped up, by now, Henrik considered himself a pro in this line of work.

Execution was everything at this point, there was no room for mistakes, no room to slip up, he had his cards to play and only one way to play them correctly for them fall in his favor. Of course, he'd dabbled, organizations left and right had offered him swift sums of money to buy his compliance, to buy his intel on his beloved country, some of the sums he'd taken with promises that he hadn't planned on keeping. And with those organizations in mind, he laid out his plans on the message board, with every intention of slipping away without a scratch but their money still in hand. Slick wasn't a word he'd use to describe himself, though, it didn't stop others using said word to describe him. Everything seemed to roll right off him, whatever accusations, whatever allegations, he knew how to talk the talk, and pay the right people to make himself look good.

And with his cards in place, and his privately hired car pulling into his estate in Budapest, it was smooth sailing.

* * *

 

Clinical, detached, cold.

Professional.

Toppling the competition had been completed with awe-inspiring grace and ease, with an elegance that had been less inspiring and more drilled into her skull until Natalia knew nothing more than what she did best. And she was the best. Her mentors, her fellow classmates, the procedures had all ensured that just as she ensured their success with the varied missions they sent her out on, from the tender age of ten, and probably until she was a shrivelled husk of a woman. Until then, though, she had time.

The picture of a balding man stood behind a podium was not one she was unacquainted with, the faces changed, but they blurred until they were nothing but another notch on her blades, on the mantle which had been bestowed upon her. Tilting her head to the side, she inspected his details, skimming the unnecessary information but would later go over all of it whilst on her flight out, nothing was unnecessary, everything could be used if worded or said correctly.

"He has been making things… increasingly difficult, for a lot of people," Madame B explained, her lips pursed with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Their interaction was curt, short, sharp, not unlike the women in the room. A delicate eyebrow arched as she eyed the thick file within her protégées nimble hands, hands which she had led to the pool of scarlet. Her sigh was drawn out, nails tapping against her desk, and Natalia knew that this was to be a quick mission, a supposedly easy target for someone of her calibre- madame had little patience when she believed Natalia's talents were wasted upon a target worthy of a much lower skilled grunt. "His connections with other organizations have come to light, and he has refused to choose the correct side _,_ _sledit' za tem, chto on zhaleyet dlya yego vybora_."

Natalia knew how to make one feel regret- a small nod of her head was barely noticeable, and no further details were given as she was dismissed from the room.

There was little time to pack, wheels up in fifteen minutes, but she was prepared, a bag always under her bunk with enough clothes to last her a week and enough supplies to help her get by day to day. Without care for locking the door, she stripped as soon as she made it to her room, slipping on her civilian garbs whilst fitting her loose blonde wig. One of her preferred, she could say favorite though that implied sentimentality, and the only sentiment she was allowed was with her blades, with her guns, and with the assets that the training had given her. One was supposed to look upon them fondly, as they set her above the bar, above the rest of civilisation. Though Natalia made a point of not thinking about what bar she had leapt over or what the rest of civilisation would think of the scarlet tinge of her fingers and the body count to match.

"Laura Mathers," She said clearly as she glanced into the mirror, a small one which was barely big enough to show the styling of her wig, such vanities were allowed though not overly promoted. Dolls were to be pretty, dolls were made of porcelain, though, she was no longer made of porcelain but rather marble set deep within her veins. The thought made the corner of her lip tug and the illusion which her American twang, the floral dress and happy façade, came crashing down until she was staring at Natalia Alianovna Romanova. A gentle sigh torn from her lips before her lips pulled up again, perkier, happier, as if Laura Mathers would be no place than where she was at that moment.

It was satisfactory, but satisfaction was nothing more than a bitter taste upon the tip of her tongue these days.

Pulling on a thin cardigan, the wool softened with multiple washes as if to appear well loved despite never having been worn before, her body well used to the chill as she grabbed her small suitcase whilst placing a pair of sunglasses upon the crown of her head before setting out for the airstrip.

Punctuality had long been a characteristic cruelly enforced within the Red Room operatives.

* * *

 

Barton wasn't fully used to being summoned in the middle of the night for a mission debrief. A hired gun may have had an employer, but it was very rarely one that could send him after a target without consulting him on whether or not he would actually accept said target. To make matters worse, Clint had been sitting alone in a room for well over an hour just for his handler to finally come fill him in on who they were sending him after.

Joining S.H.I.E.L.D was a whole new ballpark that the archer was still finding his footing in. More often than not, Clint had purposely arrived late to a meeting with whoever it was that had contracted him. Simply to scope out his future employer. One could never be too careful of those they chose to associate with.

He wasn't used to being the one having to wait.

After another few minutes of sitting around, the door to the conference room was finally opened to reveal his handler, Coulson, with a file in hand.

"-Really? You dragged me in here at nearly one in the morning to make me sit in a room and wait for an entire hour. I'm pretty sure the message you sent me was URGENT," The sleep-deprived man grumbled as he flopped his head down onto his waiting arms, resembling a pouting child more than he cared to admit. He'd barely had time to get his hearing aids in, let alone making sure his arrival was prompt.

"Not everything revolves around the tasks assigned to just one agent. As important as your beauty sleep might be to you, I have far more important things to see to than a grown man throwing a temper tantrum because he wasn't my top priority. I can always come back later," he suggested though there was no heat in his words.

When the two had met, Clint might have taken his words to heart. But after knowing the older man for the last few months, it was easy to know whether or not the threat was hollow. Coulson was wearing a Mona Lisa smile on his lips further prove that the man was really just yanking on his leg.

"Well get to it, Bossman. I'd actually like to know whether or not being dragged out of bed at one in the morning was worth it or not," Clint shot back as the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent moved to sit across from him. The file that he had been holding was pushed out to him as Coulson relaxed back into one of the unnaturally hard chairs within the conference room. Weren't they supposed to be promoting good posture and all that crap?

"Henrik Batori. 48 years of age. Politician. Budapest. He is your mission. You are to go in unnoticed and neutralize the target. No trail back to this organization. Wheels up in 20."

A frown pulled on the edges of Clints lips at the other's easy dismissal of him. That was nowhere near enough information for the former hitman to go off of. Narrowing his eyes, he opened the file, his blue eyes locking onto the slightly overweight man in the multitude of pictures his handler had provided for him.

Clint wondered just what the man he was being sent after had done to cause this reaction from those higher than him, though, he knew that it was better to do and then ask the questions that were plaguing his mind.

"...That's it?"

"That's it."

"You dragged me out of bed, for that," He griped, a blank stare at his handler, who's Mona Lisa smile had yet to budge. "A simple text could'a done it y'know?"

"That's not how S.H.I.E.L.D. operates, Agent Barton, and like I said, wheels up in 20." Coulson was quick to prompt, watching as his charge shut the file, deciding that he could simply read everything provided at a more convenient time, lifting his eyes to meet Coulson's almost smug expression. "Guess you better hurry."

He scowled as he pushed up from the table, file safely tucked under his arm as Clint headed towards the door of the room, only pausing to look over his shoulder. A gleam in his eye and a grin on his lips, his hand hovered over the doorknob.

"So I take it I can just leave my dog with you right?"

That wiped the Mona Lisa smile right off his handlers face.

**Author's Note:**

> Russian Translation: Ensure he regrets his choice.


End file.
